Blood and Prayers
by scratchmarred
Summary: After declaring war to the Ministry, one wizard ponders the true and horrible consequences of his actions. His reflections on the blood on his hands, and the innocence he lost...1860, first Grindelwald uprising


**Author's note:** originally intended for the FAP Cookie Jar as a character study, have decided to let a wider audience have a go at it. Hope it's not incredibly confusing, though I reckon it shall prove a slight so due to the character utilized…

Looking back, it had been quite a curious choice of words that Ulrich Grindelwald had favored; curious and deadly; but it was not something he would allow himself to ponder, at the time. There were other things, far more worth the time than simple formality, and it was to these that he was to dedicate his attention, if not his full affection. Still, wavering and errors were little shreds of a past he could not afford to revive; thought hardly an elitist, he was part of those few who took weakness as shallow. Mistake as shameful. And doubt as unforgivable. So he would wonder, for a few more precious instants, on why it was he had said all that he had.  
_"I will pray for you." _  
These were simple words for the outsider's eye, but they carried a distinct valor, a certain bitterness to one as he. He had, for years, chosen to disregard the possibilities of a commitment to the Lord. He had not allowed himself a word of blessing, had not risen his eyes upon a Holy Placement in fear of the light of its innocence, the light he had so cruelly lost, would burn the darkness within him. Or, perhaps, there were greater roots to this demeanor on his behalf, and perhaps they centered on some animal impulse of self defense. Should he one day confront the Lord's House, and find that he be welcome…well, then, certainly, that would be a time of great thought and privilege the fall of many cravings and expectations.   
But why had he spoken them? Why promise a prayer to that one? He had no call nor true bond to him other than the guilt that had woven in-between. Because – and here, he did not indulge, as many more vain creatures than he would not hesitate in thinking otherwise- they would only share a past. Never a future.   
Little ploys of a fortune far more vindictive than they had seen to as much. And in retrospect, he was to admit that the situation pleased him. The other represented a too great a contradiction of his own principles in order for any bond to ever birth on its own accord. Harmony, again, was only an illusion between fiends as they. He had lost all chances to it as the last drop of blood had been spilt from the first kill, and there was to be no forgetting that particular event. He himself would have never condoned pity. And he knew, as he had always known, that ever be that ordeal overlooked, then it would be for pity's sake, and pity's sake alone.  
Again, it was not pride that he felt to govern his actions. Merely a sense of realism. Nothing tied the two of them, and nothing ever would.  
He was not pessimistic by nature, whatever his nature. Instead, he had always treated fate as he had all his acquaintances, regardless of the intimacy they had once known: with a blank indifference, more or less cautiously veiled.  
So his own words, to follow, had startled him. And now, hours after, when he stood on his velvet sheeted chair, and drank in the smell of sweet, Indian incense, they troubled him still.  
_"I will pray for you."_  
Perhaps it had been in the eyes, the demand that such confirmation be spoken. Eyes so big, and green, and soft – and for once since he had known the other, eyes that did not speak of old tales, or pleasurable myths and forbidden fruit. Seduction, anger, all gone, no emotion.  
For one so human, in his approach of life, to have no more of this corporeal quality was worrisome, in the least. So he had felt forced, to say as one does to an angel:   
_"I will pray."_ And the rest of it had come because…because this was no longer the time of half measures, and because what he had seen had been not what he had been let see, but what all were in power to see. A shadow, not a man, not even one of them.   
This lack of vigor surprised him. Were it in anyone but him, he might have considered it endurance, stoicism to the coming of the century. But he was not the average gift of the ages. And his was not the pain that would pass.  
And cynical as he was, and equally unforgiving, it was on this note that he allowed himself a private laugh – a wretched laugh, a laugh of he who did not believe, but who would will himself to believe.  
Clasping his fingers, he did say the words. After all, they cost him nothing, only the image, only the sad smile, and again that last plea, echoing his mind:  
_"You will tell no one."_  
He would not. Why would he? They had nothing to offer him. Nothing at all.   
"For you…" he whispered. Though whether to the wind, or to the night, or to the very image of a fair haired Christ now descending upon him, he could not tell. Fair haired and with those green eyes, and it was under this sign that he thought, perhaps, this could be a rite of double meaning. Part of it be for himself…while part of it be for the Ulrich Grindelwald to which he had whispered those five little words – I will pray for you – how sweet… a promise to that part of himself that he had abandoned once turning away from the mirror, before entering that Ministry common room. Before declaring war…  
Slowly, palms united, he merely nodded. Let it be done.  
"Pater noster qui es in caelis…"  
Silently, all thought left him. In centuries of existence, he had nor prayed for his own safety, nor for his bliss. But he would pray, now. For his last shadow of his innocence, Ulrich Grindelwald would pray. 


End file.
